Title: Anger, Wrath, Indignation
Character/s: Mordred, Galahad(OC), Arthur
Summary: Mordred can't seem to get away from his jealousy
Word Count: 797
Author's Notes: Mordred was so perfect and I had so many feelings I had to write about him. Title's from the OED definition of jealousy... ALSO YOU MADE ME A TAG I AM SO NOT EMOTIONALLY PREPARED FOR THEM TO HAVE A TAG AND BE AN ACTUAL THING. -cough-. Thank you yenny2206 because I'm guessing it was you :)
Minor edit because I'm stupid and started them both in exactly the same way...
Jealousy has been with him ever since he can remember. A constant companion of twisting, corrupting tendrils, wrapping around his gut and his heart and squeezing, just when he needs it the least.
Jealousy and Camelot seem, for Mordred, to be intertwined.
There was the first time, when everything was so bright and so clean and so new, with buildings of stone, so strong, so permanent, compared to the tents he was used to, even to the wooden cabins he sometimes marvelled at. It had been market day, and so, so busy, so many people, so many lives, so beautiful the way the streets teemed with it. And he wanted it. He wanted to live there, to be accepted there. He watched the people in the streets, the ordinary people with their ordinary lives, their gossip and their smiles and their nagging mothers, and he wanted it. He wished he could be a part of it, so much.
And then there were the guards, and the reminder of why, why he’d always have to hide, why the little boy with the glowing eyes could never be part of their simple world of bustle and bright colours and smells that drifted through the market and stung his nose… It seemed so unfair; he’d never chosen this, and he was more powerful than them, so why shouldn’t they accept him? He should be the one denying their presence, he convinced himself, while underneath he yearned and yearned to be like them for just a day…
And now years later, returning to be a part of it all, like he’d always wanted, like he’d always craved. But sitting at the feast table after his knighting ceremony and looking at them all, he still feels apart. There is so much to come to him, so much life to live and so soon, but for now there’s just the distance; the knights with their laughing and their beer and their food, and Mordred, watching it all, his only friend the King himself. And Arthur seems too busy, too preoccupied to spend his time on Mordred, alone, trapped in his position of honour.
On the other side of the long upper table sits another knight apart from the rest. Mordred was introduced to Galahad earlier in the evening, and he thinks of maybe going over later; but the boy, as Mordred must think of him since he’s barely of age, spends the evening talking to a servant girl. They keep a good distance apart, whispering every now and then. She seems keen, but Mordred notices they barely touch; don’t even kiss. The poor man must be enjoying the slowest courtship Camelot has seen.
He looks over towards the end of the night, failing to guard his eyes sufficiently. Mordred notices. Galahad waves a little the third time he’s caught. Mordred tries a smile out in return, and is rewarded by a flash of a grin, wide and bright and so open Mordred can barely believe it, used as he is to trickery and manipulation. Like the shock of light to night-sensitive eyes, it brings with it a twist of jealousy; not just of Galahad for being an established knight and having friends, having people to talk to, but also of the girl standing next to him. Mordred wants to be that close, wants to be pursued by him, wants to have that smile and those clear blue eyes and the mussed hair turned on him at all times. He wants to hover at Galahad’s shoulder, to brush past him without thinking about it. To hold him closer and tighter and with far fewer clothes. And lips, on Galahad’s thinner ones, on his skin, to hold him and taste him and listen to the sounds of his breath…
He lets go of the idea, in as much that an idea can be released. He’ll still want it, of course; he won’t be able to stop himself. But he removes all hope of it ever happening. Because Galahad has that girl that he is so jealous of, and because Mordred has never been able to hold onto the best of things.
If he used his Sight he’d know that the girl was never Galahad’s, that there was nothing to be jealous of. That Galahad yearned in his own sweet, innocent little way, and that he could take, like plucking an apple from a tree.
He will, of course, in time. But it would save so much heartache if he could see that they will be together, for a while, at least. Then again, Sight is a guileful thing. If he looked too far into the future, there’s no telling what pain he might see ahead. No, perhaps it’s best that he doesn’t try to See.